


Hetalia ficlets

by Such_Funk



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Cute, F/M, FACE Family, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Historical, Human AU, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Smut, Some OOC, man ill die for face family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 11:01:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18603193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Such_Funk/pseuds/Such_Funk
Summary: I write a lot and thought I should get my ideas out somehow- I take a requests a lot if I'm comfortable with it. The notes have the descriptions of each story- Some aren't finished.





	Hetalia ficlets

**Author's Note:**

> This one is from my works folder, it's a historical fic based in the 1700s while America was trying to break off from Britain. Human AU and if you squint it's USUK.

Plastic nubs hitting hardened tar is what I hear every morning. My wooden crutch hiding under my left armpit. The clicking and tapping of every step ringing through my ears. The air smelt of warm tar and waste. I only had two things on my mind, Benjamin Franklin and a way home.  
“Ey, Tory!” I felt heat rise up from my numbed toes to my temples. The grip on my leather bag only grew as I heard the patter of a horse behind me. “Saw you with a redcoat.” A gruff voice thundered over me. My words stuck to the innards of my throat, almost threatening to stay there. “How many letters you got in there?” Big gloved hands patted my bag, his big meaty fingers holding the clasp. Stutters started to leave my lips as I couldn't figure what to say.  
I whipped the bag to my other arm, resting beside my crutch. He hopped off of his horse and I swear I felt the ground start to tremble beneath us. My bag was ripped from my grasp. Before I understood what predicament I was in, I was underneath my American brethren. My bag was in my cold dead hands, clutched near my heart. Pounding and pounding only pursuing my strength. But air only leaving my lungs in huffs but no words passing through my throat. “Mister.. Mister Jones!” An accented voice I could barely register went into one ear and out the other. My bandaged leg swung at the man, bitter insults crossing my tongue. My foot landed against his thigh; pushing him a smidge away from me. Small pale hands grabbed the man and pushed him off of me. A weight lifted was a welcome gift to me. The aura enriched into his movement because the bag was dropped back down onto my chest. I quickly gripped it between my grubby clutches before even thinking about getting up. The heavyset man swinging his leg over the poor creature’s back in a loud movement, a snarl leaving both of their mouths as the golden brown fur ran off. His hair laced hand raised up as he was leaving, holding up two red wax sealed parachments. I disregarded my crutch and stood, staring at the man with my carriage. I opened my mouth to yell or scream and as soon as a vowel left my mouth, I was yanked down my the end of my ponytail. “Mister Jones..” The accented voice continued, sitting next to me. I swore this man was but a broken shell; two words only repeating. Out of breath and exhausted, he looked down at me. “Jones..” I suddenly snapped, “What?” I questioned, my face begun to heat furiously. “What could you possibly say that could pique my interest after that charade?” Voice laced with venom as thick as syrup, I gripped my crutch and begun to stand. This man; I had no clue who he was or what was his business with me, but I could tell I would hate him already. He was inches taller than me, eyebrows as thick as his skull and cut golden hair. “Sir, I am Arthur Theodore Kirkland of the British Empire.” He said, a slight bow along with his words. I remain unimpressed, adjusting the bag slung around my shoulder. He eyes my bag, greed in his eyes only angered me. Unopened letters stuck out from the holes in the leather. “We know your resentment against the British mailing system,” He spoke, taking a jab at my bag. “We-” I stopped him in his tracks. “Who’s we?” My bloodied nails dug into my leather strap. “King Ge-” I flicked my tongue across my teeth, “He ain’t a king.” I spoke, turning slowly, my crutch hitting the ground once again. Arthur seemed to take my statement to heart, he raced beside me, looking into my eyes with his green ones. Filthy and loyalist, he spoke once again. “I saved your letters, Mister Jones!” He shouted, his face lighting with red. “Now in the name of the King, hand them over!” He dropped all casualties, “These do not belong to you! Only the certified carriers can hold that right!” At that moment, I had two decisions. Give him the bag or get out my knife. “Not a chance, you dirty Brit.” Those words stained my teeth as he reached around and grabbed hold of my bag. He was smaller than the previous man; making this easier to grab a hold of. Cheap leather had begun to rip, but neither of us paid to notice. My bag split down the middle; a pound of mail scattering into the streets. Water plaguing and soaking into the sacred parchment. Ink smeared and begun to be unreadable. The wax seals turned to mush against the water. My eyes widened, as did his. I picked up a letter, holding it in my hands. I opened it slowly. The words of Benjamin ceased to show; only smudges of ink and ripping paper. My mouth opened first, shouts lighting the streets. I kicked him with the wooden crutch straight to his kneecap; swears and curses hung heavily in the air. “I best tar you for that!” I howled angrily, my teeth gritting and grinding. Arthur’s eyes were open, feverish and blasted indeed. “I best be on my way.” He began to say as if he had done nothing but ruin my line of work. I gripped him by the nape of his neck, my fingers finding the smallest hair to tug him back on. “Not a chance.” I snarled, my face twisting into an angry grimace.


End file.
